


thot through the heart (and you're to blame)

by Deisderium



Series: food for thot [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Dragons, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Bisexual Bucky Barnes, Cross-Cryptid Romance, Human Disaster Bucky Barnes, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Super Beefy Steve, Twink Bucky Barnes, Vampire Disaster Bucky Barnes Anyway, omg they were roommates, thot Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 10:43:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19332961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deisderium/pseuds/Deisderium
Summary: "You look like shit," Steve says, and that breaks the spell a little because fuck you, Steve, he looks good. Steve's nostrils flare. "Is that—is that blood on your mouth?"Oh, fuck. Bucky needs to work on not being a sloppy eater. He wipes his mouth hastily, and without thinking, licks his hand clean. Steve stares.*In which Bucky is a baby vampire, a disaster, out to have a good time, and hopelessly in love with his roomate; and in which Steve has a few secrets of his own.





	1. Thot Without You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thatsmysecret](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsmysecret/gifts).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: OMG!!! Crinklefries commissioned the fantastic [Nikki](https://twitter.com/nalonzooo) to draw these two for my birthday!! 😭😭😭 I am overcome with joy, and they are THE CUTEST!!! I've embedded the art at the end of the chapter, please check it out! <3

 

Bucky Barnes has always been, honestly, a bit of a disaster. It’s just that, up until a week ago, he was so much better at hiding it.

Up until a week ago, he was working steadily at his boring entry-level first job after college. It wasn’t fun, but it paid the bills and there was the possibility of promotion after six months. Between his money and what Steve Rogers, his roommate, best friend, and unrequited crush, brought in, they had the rent covered on their shitty little apartment; enough to keep the lights on, feed themselves, and cover the occasional drunken night out.

If Bucky pines after the man his childhood friend has become, well, that’s his problem, not Steve’s; he tries to keep his emotional mess bottled up inside where it belongs. If he thinks to himself that the men and women Steve dated wouldn’t have appreciated him before late puberty hit and Steve shot up and then bulked up, not the way Bucky does—what does it matter at this late date?

Bucky has more-or-less resigned himself to longing from afar after Steve…and he can’t even say he’s _resigned_ ; that’s the wrong word. Bucky is closer to Steve than anyone else has gotten, ever, as far as he can tell. Steve keeps a careful distance from everyone but Bucky. So what if they aren’t sleeping together?

Or anyway, that was his biggest problem a week ago.

But then, a week ago was before he got bitten by a vampire.

*

Tonight, Bucky’s wearing all his disaster on the outside. He’s got on skin-tight leather pants, a black shirt with, honestly, mesh panels—he’s not even sure where it came from; was it his? Or did he acquire it off someone he fucked in the last week?—motorcycle boots, and a bomber jacket with a rainbow ombre ribbon from wrist to shoulder. He rubbed gel through his hair and it’s sticking up, and he ringed his eyes with eyeliner that is both black and sparkly.

He’s never been tan except in the summer, but he’s pasty as fuck right now. It doesn’t matter. He’s got a good buzz going from the shelf vodka he’s been swilling, the E he took a while back is still buzzing through all his nerve endings, and once he gets a little blood in him, he’ll probably get his mouth on a dick. Really, he can’t understand why he didn’t do this sooner.

Not the vampire part—that had come as a surprise. But the embracing his own hot mess part. He’d spent so much time sitting on his unfortunate feelings for Steve, he’d sat on everything else too. And now—who gave a fuck? He could never have Steve the way he wanted, not now that he was a monster, so why not chase every other desire his id could conjure?

There. Across the bar. There's a pretty one. He's short, skinny, a button-down shirt folded up over his forearms, tattoos twining down to his wrists. He's a brunet, alas, but no one's perfect; no one at this bar, anyway. At home—Bucky shuts the thought down.

“Hi,” Bucky says, sliding into the open space next to the man and licking his lips so both the man and the bartender can see. “Can I buy you a drink?”

The man’s gaze takes a none-too-quick voyage from Bucky’s head to his toes, and Bucky leans back against the back of the bar stool so his jacket falls open and the man can see the mesh panels along his ribs; the line of his pecs, his hips. He's not built like Steve is—he's more slim lines and lean muscles—but he looks good and he knows it.

“Sure,” he says, and the bartender takes in Bucky’s nod towards the drinks, and honestly, Bucky’s not sure whether it’s the Ecstasy or the fucking thirst that is a constant of his new existence that has his skin tingling with the want to be touched, but he's going to get his teeth in this dude and then his mouth on him. Or maybe the other way around, he really doesn't care.

They drink their drinks, the guy tells him his name, which Bucky immediately forgets, and they listlessly flirt, Bucky not bothering to bring his A-game, just kind of sluttily leaning forward to mouth his drink, bite his lower lip, flutter his eyelashes. Twenty minutes after they finish their drinks, the guy is passed out in a bathroom stall, about a pint of blood lighter, and his dick messily sucked. He'll wake up with the vague and happy memory of the latter, no memory whatsoever of the former, an embarrassing hangover, and a bottled water and a granola bar tucked into his jacket pocket; Bucky's not a _complete_ monster.

Well, he is. But he doesn't have to be a dick about it.

So now his cheeks are flushed a temporary red and the craving that hounds him is momentarily at bay, and he feels _good_ , just buzzed enough with blood and alcohol that he steps outside to light a cigarette. The first drag burns a little at the back of his throat. Doesn't do as much as it did for him a week ago, when a cigarette was an occasional drunken treat, but what's it going to do, give him lung cancer? He's already dead.

He laughs a little at that, and if it sounds a little unhinged, a little like it might turn into tears, so what? He's by himself.

Or not. "Jesus, Bucky," comes a deep, all-too-familiar voice. "What the fuck? I've been looking everywhere for you."

"Well, you found me," Bucky manages to say, and looks up.

It's Steve, of course it's Steve, looking down the alley towards the back door of the club, haloed by the streetlight like an angel in a Renaissance painting or some shit, the muffled sounds of an electronic bass line pumping out through the closed club doors. Steve is enormous, the swell of his muscles evident even under the soft blue sweater he’s wearing. His hair is long enough to flop into his face, and he pushes it back with impatient fingers. Bucky can’t help the fondness and longing he feels. He flicks his cigarette butt away, and sighs mentally, aware that Steve looks like a wholesome lumberjack or something and he personally is dressed to find dick to suck. Which—mission accomplished, but it feels awkward now that Steve is here.

"What the fuck," Steve comments again, and walks into the alley, towards Bucky, away from the light. There's some kind of metaphor in there, Bucky muses, and pushes himself out of the darkness to met Steve halfway. He's not even sure how Steve spotted him lurking in the shadows, but Steve's always had kind of a sixth sense where Bucky is concerned.

Halfway through the alley, they're in an artificial dusk, light and shadows blended together, and Bucky looks up at Steve's familiar, beautiful face, the soft lines of his beard, and wishes that at any point in his first life he had reached up and touched him like he wanted to then, like he wants to now. He should have done it before he was remade into this.

"You look like shit," Steve says, and that breaks the spell a little because fuck you, Steve, he looks good. Steve's nostrils flare. "Is that—is that blood on your mouth?"

Oh, fuck. Bucky needs to work on not being a sloppy eater. He wipes his mouth hastily, and without thinking, licks his hand clean. Steve stares.

"You should see the other guy," he mumbles, and then winces because why would he even say that, why.

"I really don't think I want to," Steve says, and Bucky can't get a read on what exactly that tone of voice is supposed to mean. All he knows is that he is an even bigger disaster than previously suspected, and that's saying something.

"Let me take you home," Steve says, and this time his voice is so gentle that Bucky can't stand it, almost as much as he loves it. He'd tell Steve just how much he likes it , but he had another dude's dick in his mouth not half an hour ago, and Steve doesn't want him that way anyhow, and even he isn't useless enough to think that's okay.

"All right," he says instead. "Let's go home."

*

Of all the people Steve has ever known, he loves Bucky the best. That's been true since they were children, and Bucky had rescued a young Steve Rogers, barely more than a hatchling, from a pack of bullies. Well, he hadn't exactly needed rescuing, not really, but Bucky had saved him from blowing his cover, not that Bucky had known either of those things. And that isn't the point; the point is that Steve had looked at Bucky, a bruise just starting to purple along his cheekbone, knuckles split where he had punched someone for Steve and thought: _Mine_.

He is still thinking it, fifteen years later. Somewhere along the way, the way he wanted to possess him changed. _Not possess_ , he reminds himself, _that's not the right word, not for humans_. Only that's the thing, isn't it? Bucky's not human anymore. Not the way he was.

Steve wonders, briefly, what he is now, what happened to him; there are a number of things he could be now, but Steve isn't all that well-versed in the supernatural community outside his own niche. It hadn't really seemed that important, until now.

But it doesn't matter. Steve loves him no matter what he is. Steve wants him, with his heart and his body and every last bone and breath he has, and all the reasons they shouldn't be together are probably still there, but maybe, just maybe, they're a little different now.

He can hear Bucky moving around in his room, maybe changing out of those ridiculous clothes, maybe putting up the blackout curtains Steve guesses he's not supposed to have noticed. Steve moves to the door and knocks, quietly.

"We gonna talk about this?" Steve says through the door, and if he weren't what he was, he wouldn't hear the sad little sigh that Bucky makes instead of a reply.

But the door opens a second later. Bucky has changed out of his club clothes into a pair of track pants and a ratty old green sweater that is his favorite because of how soft it is, to the point where he hasn't chucked it out even though there are holes in both elbows and along the neckline. He's brushed the product out of his hair and it's fluffier than it was. Steve wants to touch it.

"I didn't mean to worry you," Bucky says, eyes downcast. He looks remorseful, but he also still smells like a distillery and he's swaying a little bit.

In a perfect world, Steve could just explain to Bucky how much he wants to protect him, to keep him close, to cradle him in his arms pretty much all the time, growling at anyone who'd try to take him away. Alas, this is a world—the world of human society—where Steve's natural impulses are in fact creeper moves.

But in this world, the world where Bucky is his best friend and has been since they were children, there are at least some comforts he can offer.

"You look tired," he says, instead of asking Bucky what the fuck happened, where the fuck he's been for the last week: barely coming home, sleeping all day when he did, missing work—Steve had called him in sick—reeking of booze, smoke, and sex; and tonight, blood. Steve needs to know, but he can be patient, because Bucky looks fragile in a way that Steve has never seen on him before.

Steve opens his arms, just enough to make the offer clear. "We could lie down for a while. Get some rest."

They've slept in the same bed so many times in the past—more when they were kids, of course, but a few times when they were adults. After Steve's mom went back to the old country and left him; after Bucky had gotten turned down from the job interview with the place he really wanted. Bucky looks at him for a long time, his eyes a familiar stormy gray, but shuttered in a way that they're usually not. Not to Steve.

But then Bucky says, "Yeah," so quietly that Steve could have missed it, and walks into Steve's arms. Steve pulls him tight against his chest, rubs his hand up and down Bucky's back over his soft sweater.

They get ready to sleep and then climb into Bucky's bed. It's late—it was late when Steve found Bucky outside that club, and it's not long till dawn now. Steve works from home so he's not really sweating sleeping in tomorrow, and he guesses whatever's going on with Bucky, he's not that concerned about his job. Steve slides in the way he usually does and tucks himself up behind Bucky's back so he can sling an arm over his side. Bucky stiffens, and Steve starts to pull his hand back, but then Bucky grabs it with chilly fingers and sets it against his side.

"Sorry," Bucky murmurs. "I'm cold."

"S'okay, Buck," Steve says. "You know I run hot."

They lie there in silence for a little while, Steve breathing in Bucky's scent, which, even if he hadn't been acting like a complete jerk, is different now that Steve has the chance to breathe it in. It's still Bucky's smell, but now there's a layer of something else over top of it. Metallic, like blood. No surprises there.

"You know you can tell me anything," Steve says, and Bucky reaches up to squeeze his fingers again.

"I will," he says. "I'll try. Just...give me time?"

Steve sighs in the dark and thinks of keeping him close, protecting him, keeping him here next to him forever. But that's not what Bucky needs or wants. It never has been. But he gets this; this is enough.

"Of course, Buck," he says, and drifts off to sleep with Bucky safe in the circle of his arms.

*

Bucky wakes up in a panic, freaking out about the possibility of talking to Steve about what happened to him. But of course, it's dusk outside and Steve has probably been up for a while, because the bed is empty, and so cold.

He'd felt warm in Steve's arms, in a way that he'd bitched about every other time they'd slept together—not _together_ together, that had never happened and never would, just in the same bed—but he'd been secretly pleased every time he had to kick the covers off because Steve was so hot, because Steve was pressed up against him like a furnace, like a brand.

But last night, he'd felt warm in a way he hasn't since he died, surrounded by Steve's embrace, and he allows himself a moment to mourn the loss.

He sits up and stretches, pads over to the window to twitch the blackout curtain to the side just a fraction of an inch and judge the light coming through. Not full dark, not yet. The fucker who made him hadn't really told him that much about what he was now, but he had said that the light thing was more-or-less true, and that Bucky would get more light-resistant as he got older, able to stay awake longer.

For now, he doesn't really want to test it. But it's dark enough that he could go out into the rest of the apartment. "Steve?" he calls softly. There's no answer, and the place has the quiet feel of a home with no one in it.

He finds a note on the kitchen table, next to a bunch of bananas going brown, because Steve doesn't really like them and Bucky can't eat them anymore. Something about the brown spots spreading over the yellow peels feels tragic, and he has to pinch the bridge of his nose sharply because he isn't going to cry over fruit, he's just not. Steve can make banana bread out of them or something, and they won't sit there in their sad wasted potential, slowly dying, and god damn it, he's caught a metaphor again.

He picks up the note and in Steve's familiar scrawl is the information that Steve has gone to the store and will Bucky please, please, _please_ not leave before he gets back because he really does want to talk if Bucky's up for it.

Bucky is not up for it. He knows, as soon as he reads the words, that he is going to bail out before Steve gets back because he is not only panicked about the discussion that he can't have, but that Steve will want to stress cook a mountain of food that Bucky can't eat, and how the fuck will he explain any of it?

So he does the only logical thing and writes Steve a note that says, in its entirety, _Going out. Be back late. We'll talk soon?_ and then, after a brief hesitation, _sorry,_ because he knows this is a dick move, he's just not letting it stop him.

Ten minutes later he is dressed for the club in very skinny skinny jeans that he's been told accentuate his thighs, a sheer button up with an ombre floral pattern (no undershirt), and a quilted bomber jacket from his perhaps-excessive collection of jackets. By the time he's on the street, it's dark, and he's got that itch under his skin that means he needs more: more blood, more skin. He knows that alcohol or pills will only dull it for a little while, but he's going to try.

He's going through his bank account quicker than he generally would, but it's not like he's buying groceries, ha, and he knows that at some point he'll have to have that conversation with Steve and quit his job and find some other way of making his half of the rent, or leave and find somewhere else, but all of these thoughts just make his stomach cramp, and the breath he doesn't technically need to take come faster, and that's why he didn't want to think about this. His heart may not be beating, but something in his chest is tight and aching anyhow. He needs a drink.

It's only a few minutes before he has one—vampires don't really wait for bartenders or, honestly, anyone to notice them—and is scanning the crowd, looking for someone who'll give him what he needs. An hour later, several people have bought him drinks and there's a pleasant buzz keeping all the thoughts he'd rather not entertain far, far away, and one or more of these people will be filling his other needs sooner rather than later.

A man has been buying both him and a woman drinks, and by the time he's brought back round three, Bucky is feeling magnanimous towards both of them and fairly confident that these are the ones he wants to drink from and maybe fuck, and when the dude leans forward to kiss him, he's pleased to see that the woman takes in a soft breath, and when he turns to kiss _her_ , the man is panting with want.

Bucky isn't exactly sure what he needs, besides blood, but it calms something inside of him to have other people touch his skin, and he wonders if he was always that way and just ignoring it, or if this is new since he got bitten. Either way, they're in a booth, they've had a lot to drink, and he is leaning into his two new pals and doesn't know whose hands are touching him where, and it's _great_.

He doesn't even know why he answers the buzz of his phone in his back pocket but he mutters an apology and leans back to fish it out while he watches the other two kiss; then he does know why, because it's Steve.

_W T F_ is the text from Steve. _Where are you?_

Bucky feels bad about it, he really does, so he can't explain why he does what he does. Maybe it's because he knows that he can never have Steve the way he wants—there was that one time he’d been drunk and kissed him and Steve just hadn’t done anything back and it was basically the worst moment of his life, prior to the past week. Maybe he's trying to be enough of an asshole that Steve will kick him out and he won't have to make any decisions on his own. Maybe he's just Bucky Barnes, walking embodiment of poor impulse control. Whatever the cause, he gets back to making out with the man and the woman in front of him, Snapchats the three of them, and sends it to Steve.

Then he jams his phone in his pocket and gets back to it. Eventually the three of them go back to the woman's apartment, and Bucky leaves the two of them passed out, the itch in his gut momentarily sated by skin and blood. He lights a cigarette and walks slowly toward home.

It is with the regrettable feeling of facing pigeons—or chickens or whatever the birds of bad decisions are—coming home to roost that he pulls out his phone. It would be wrong to say that his blood goes cold, because his blood is always cold now, but something pinches inside him; his heart, maybe. There are no notifications—not Snapchat, no new texts.

Steve hasn't responded to him at all.

*

It's three-thirty in the morning and Steve hasn't been able to get to sleep.

He can't stop thinking about Bucky, which, to be fair, is nothing new. But _now_ he can't stop thinking about the stupid video Bucky sent him, about the way Bucky's mouth had looked on those other people, the way he kissed both of them, one after another, the spread of his hand against the woman's collarbone.

It's distracting him from his worry, because Bucky sent that video at 12:23 a.m. and it's three hours later and he's still not home. What's going to happen if he doesn't make it home before dawn?

Steve has been doing a little research. He noted the blood, the blackout curtains, the sudden-onset nocturnality, the pallor, and written down a timeline for the changes in Bucky's behavior. Then he called Wanda, because Wanda is a witch and knows a lot more about non-airborne magical creatures than Steve does. It hasn't been a concern until now.

Wanda is pretty sure that Bucky is a vampire now—the sex thing, she said, was a dead giveaway; vampires, especially baby vampires, are extremely horny, apparently—and she gave Steve some suggestions about how to prove that theory, but first Bucky has to come home.

If Steve thinks about him for too long, he gets a sense of where Bucky is. It's not something he feels good about, exactly; it's just that he's treasured Bucky since they were kids, before he even thought to try and control the impulse to hoard him. It's been too late for him since he was sixteen and his mother had tried to explain to him that you couldn't just go around adding people to your hoard. People have to choose, she'd said, and humans are so short-lived. You can't keep him, she'd said; it wouldn't be fair to either of you.

He'd tried. Not very hard, considering that he'd said yes when Bucky asked him to move in, but he'd tried. He'd done his best to be a friend to him and nothing else, even though he wanted so much more. He’d have been anything for Bucky, if Bucky had ever asked him and meant it.   

Bucky had tried to kiss him once, after they'd spent a day together. They'd gone to see a movie, then to a museum, and then to a bar. Bucky had been drunk enough that it had been a bad idea regardless of all the other reasons it was a bad idea; drunk enough that maybe he didn't remember Steve gently pulling away from him with a whispered _no_ , or at least could plausibly deny it. They'd never talked about it afterwards. Steve had tried to bring it up, once, and Bucky had shut him down, so that was that.

Of course, all of that was before the whole vampirism thing.

It could be different now, maybe. He just has to get Bucky to stay in one place long enough for them to talk about it.

The sound of the key in the door cranks Steve's heartbeat up.

Bucky stands in the doorway for a second after the door swings open, mostly a silhouette against the hallway's light.

"Steve?" he says, and it's so uncertain, so questioning, that Steve has to clear his throat before he can talk.

"I'm here," he manages on the second try.

Bucky shuts his eyes, and Steve thinks he reads relief on his face. He shuts the door behind him and walks into their apartment. For a moment, he's just doing normal coming-home things—hanging his jacket in the closet by the door, taking off his shoes—and Steve could pretend that everything was the same as it ever was, but he doesn't want to pretend.

Steve's been waiting, agitated and restless, moving from couch to chair and back again, but most recently he settled on the couch, so Bucky comes and sits next to him.

He looks—well, he looks _good._ Good and disheveled. His shirt is one button off, and it's sheer enough that Steve can see red to the left of his nipple where someone sucked and bit him, and it doesn't make him jealous, exactly, but it does make him want to put his mouth over that bruise and leave his own mark, some part of his brain growling _mineminemineminemine_. He tells that voice to shut up and tears his gaze up to Bucky's face.

He's flushed enough that Steve supposes he's fed, and his lips are red and swollen, but it's his eyes that catch Steve's attention, watching Steve take him in, a line wrinkling his brow.

He looks as uncertain as he sounded, miserably waiting for rejection, and Steve can't stand it. He reaches out and pulls Bucky to his chest so he can wrap his arms around him. Bucky makes the smallest sound, a let-out breath that Steve feels in every inch of his body.

"Whatever you're worried about, it's not going to happen," Steve tells him, and Bucky shudders against him. Steve wants to wrap him up even tighter and never let him go, but that's hoarding talk, he guesses.

"You don't know, Steve, you can't say that," Bucky says, muffled into his chest.

"So tell me," Steve says.

Bucky takes a breath, and then he does.

*

"...and then he spent the rest of the night sort of telling me how to handle it, and then he left," Bucky finishes. His heart isn't pounding, because even with this borrowed blood, it can't, but it's thudding dully and off-rhythm against his ribcage, the sluggish stir of it making him feel almost sick. "So I'm a vampire now."

Steve has not stopped touching him the entire time, watching him as he rambled out the story of the man who turned him and left, Steve's blue eyes not showing a hint of the incredulity he must be feeling.

"He never came back," Steve repeats, the worried line that Bucky secretly loves furrowing his brow. "He just...left you?"

"Steve," Bucky says, more insistently, because he feels that Steve is focusing on the wrong detail here. "I said...I'm a vampire."

"I heard," Steve says, and Bucky worries that one of them is losing it and he's not sure who, before Steve adds, "I suspected as much."

"You—you suspected," Bucky says weakly. This is not at all going how he thought it would.

Steve shoots him a look that is so impossibly affectionate that it shakes something loose inside of Bucky and his erratic heartbeat slows. "Yeah, pal. You're not exactly subtle. The blackout curtains and the blood on your mouth were kind of a giveaway."

"I expected more pushback on this, to be honest." Bucky leans back, searching Steve's face for a sign of revulsion or disbelief. He doesn't find a thing. "Like, I didn't believe it at first, and I was living it."

"Oh, well." For the first time Steve looks down. His face goes red. He's always been an easy blusher and Bucky has always found it cute, but all of a sudden, Bucky is very aware of the blood moving beneath Steve's skin, and now it's devastating. He has to shift a little in his seat because awkward hard-ons are not conducive to heart-to-heart conversations. “I, uh, I asked some folks about what might be going on with you, because." Steve looks up, and all of a sudden his eyes are on fire, still blue, but burning, glowing even, and Bucky is transfixed in a way that he can't explain. Light is supposed to hurt him now, but this light only draws him in.

"Because?" Bucky breathes.

"Because I was worried," Steve says, and Bucky doesn’t know what to feel; but then Steve's big, hot hands are curved around his biceps. "Because I love you."

"Oh," Bucky manages, because Steve's eyes are so bright, and Bucky is still a monster, but Steve loves him. "I—"

"But I haven't been completely honest," Steve says over whatever Bucky might have said.

"Oh," Bucky says again, but this time it's the sound of all that hope deflating.

Anyway, Steve's never said it like _that_ exactly, but he knows that he loves him. Best friends love each other, right? This is Steve reassuring him that despite his suddenly being a creature of the night or whatever he’s still got his back. Bucky knows that Steve doesn't mean it that way—doesn't want him that way. Then his brain makes him pay attention to what he just heard instead of his useless gay feelings. "Wait, not completely honest about what?"

Steve is still red, but he meets Bucky's eyes. "It was easy for me to believe you were a vampire, Buck, because I'm not human myself. I never have been."

And this, Bucky thinks, is the actual moment the bottom of the world drops out beneath him, the moment that his world really changes. Not when he gets made into a vampire, not when he gets abandoned by the vampire that made him; but when Steve Rogers, the rock of his life, turns out to be some non-specified non-human whatever he is. Bucky spends a minute just trying to come to terms with this new information, then leans over and punches him on the bicep. Hard.

"Ow!" Steve glares at him, rubbing his arm. "What the fuck?"

It seems like Steve's been saying that a lot lately, and really, Bucky can't blame him.

"Sorry," he says and almost means it. "Just...I thought I knew everything about you, and I don't."

"No one ever knows everything about anyone else," Steve says. "But you know all the important things about me."

"Do I?" Bucky says.

"Yeah." Steve reaches out for Bucky's hand again. "You know what I care about, you know what I'm scared of. You know who I love."

Bucky thinks about it, and it's true; he knew Steve's mother, he knows Steve's friends, he knows Steve's causes. He knows Steve's loyalty, and yeah; he knows Steve would never leave him for being any kind of monster. He'd just try to help him contain the damage.

Bucky lets out a slow, shaky breath.

"Yeah," he says, "I know you." He squeezes Steve's hand. "So if you're not human either, then what are you?"

Steve looks—embarrassed. Maybe scared? He bites his lip and Bucky can't help but look right at it. He wanted to bite Steve's lip even before all of this and now he'd really like to sink his teeth into it.

"Come on, Steve," he says as cajolingly as he knows how. "I showed you mine, you show me yours."

"Jesus," Steve mutters, face flaming red, which, whoops, it's boner o'clock again. "Okay."

And then he closes his eyes, and opens them again, and this time his eyes really are glowing. The air between them ripples and then _Steve_ ripples and—

There's a dragon on the couch next to him.

Well, partially draped over the couch next to him, forelegs dangling, sinuous neck curved to look at him from familiar bright-blue eyes, wings half-furled so they don't hit the ceiling. The rest of his body curves around the couch, sleek silver scales gleaming against the scarred wooden floor, tail twitching delicately.

"Steve?" Bucky says, even though he knows it’s still him.

But: "Yes," the dragon rumbles, and Bucky jumps a little because he didn't really expect Steve to answer him while he was shaped like this.

"Can I touch you?" Maybe it's a bad idea or rude or something, but Bucky has already established that he has no self-control and he really wants to run a hand over those scales. Steve looks so smooth; beautiful, really, not that he isn't always.

"Go ahead," Steve says, his voice different coming from a differently-shaped chest, but still the same, still him.

Bucky leans forward and runs a hand down Steve's silver neck. The scales are warm and dry and just as smooth as they looked, and he traces them down to the join of his wing, which is leathery like a bat's, and surprisingly soft. Steve shivers a little under his curious touch, so Bucky pulls his hand away.

The air wobbles again, and then Steve is sitting next to him, looking just like he always does, only anxious, and Bucky hates that. Steve looks like maybe he needs a hug, and honestly all of this has been kind of a lot for Bucky too, so Bucky reaches over and pulls his best friend, the love of his whole disaster life, and dragon, apparently, close to him. The two of them spend a few long minutes just kind of clinging to each other, because everything is different, but also everything is kind of still the same.

"Don't go," Steve says, and Bucky wonders how he even knew that the thought had crossed his mind over the last week; but then, as much as he knows Steve, Steve knows him too, and he can probably see through Bucky's shenanigans before Bucky himself can.

"You really want me to stay, even though—" Bucky has to swallow. "Steve, the last week hasn't entirely been about me being an asshole. I'm just—I'm hungry all the time, for a lot of things."

Steve's fingers dig into his back, and Bucky lets his head tilt forward against Steve's shoulder, and breathes in the scent of him, familiar and comforting and maybe, now that he thinks about it, a little different than the way most people smell.

"I understand. Or maybe I don't understand entirely, but I asked Wanda and she said that especially when you're new, you need a lot. Blood." Steve takes a breath. "Sex."

"It's like I'm itching under my skin all the time," Bucky whispers. It's hard to just outright say all the things he’s afraid of, but it’s easier to say it into Steve’s shoulder like this instead of looking at him. "I don't know what I'm going to do. I can't go back to work. I'm not gonna be able to pay the rent. You say you don't want me to go, but I'm not going to be able to pull my own weight, and I'm just going to be more of a disaster than I already am." There's a knot in Bucky's chest that's making it hard to breathe.

"It's okay," Steve says, and rubs Bucky's back. "We'll make it work. I, uh. I actually have enough money that neither one of us _has_ to work unless you just want to and then you can find something you can do at night, or from home. You don't have to push yourself into something you don't want."

Bucky leans back. "How is that possible? What the hell, Steve, you're always broke."

Steve flushes for the third time, and the itch that Bucky soothed with the two people earlier starts plucking along his nerves again. "I wanted to do the whole human thing right, but actually, mom gave me part of her hoard to get me started, so..."

Bucky levels a look at him. "Are you telling me we've been doing instant noodle Thursdays for no reason?"

"Not no reason." Steve shoots him a smile, cheeks still burning. "I wanted to do things the same as you, for us to share our life experiences. How could we relate if I was just off doing things the easy way while you had to work for it?"

He's still red, and talking with passion despite his smile, and Bucky has an epiphany. It feels like the smartest thought he's had in the last week at least, and maybe before it too. "Steve," he says, "when you said you love me, do you mean as your friend? Or...?"

Steve's irises seem to glow a little bit, like they did right before he changed shape. Steve swallows, but he doesn't pull away, and his eyes don't leave Bucky's. "As my friend, of course. But, Bucky...as anything else you want me to be."

Bucky's stomach twists up because that's a fuck of a blank check Steve just wrote him. "Anything? Are you sure?"

Steve looks down and his shoulders hunch a little and Bucky just wants to fix it, but he doesn't know how. "Yeah," Steve says, very quietly. "Ma always told me it was wrong to feel about a person like you do about a treasure, but I only ever wanted to keep you. Since we were kids." He looks up, almost defiant; Bucky reaches out and cups his jawline like he's always wanted to, and has the pleasure of watching Steve melt into his touch.

"I always wanted to keep you too," Bucky tells him. "You're the most important person to me. You always have been." Then he thinks about it a minute and turns Steve's face by the chin so that he can look into those blue eyes. It's not his imagination that they're glowing now. "Hold on, though. That time I kissed you, you stopped me. Why—?"

"Buck." Steve shoots him a look. "You were drunk. It would have been wrong."

"But you wanted to?" Bucky asks. Steve nods. "Fuck, I've been telling myself you don't want me for years. "

The look of horror on Steve's face is kind of amusing. "No! No. But when I tried to talk to you about it, you shut me down, so I assumed you thought it was a mistake."

Bucky shakes his head, awash in his own sense of being an idiot. "So, you would want to...?"

Steve ducks his head and looks at Bucky through his eyelashes. "Yeah. I'd want to. Just about anything. If you want to, now that you know I'm not what you thought."

"A dragon," Bucky says, trying the word on for size. "It doesn't change anything for me, Steve. You were right. You're you, and I know you." Steve smiles at him, and Bucky hates to say the next part. "But...like you said. I'm hungry for a lot of things right now."

Steve leans forward to take Bucky's hands again, tugs him closer. He can feel the heat of Steve's body, the way he's always run hot, because, apparently, dragon. "So take what you need," Steve says, like it's simple.

Longing jerks through Bucky's body, like hooks under his skin pulling him closer to Steve.

"As easy as that?" he mutters.

"Yeah." Steve picks up one of his hands and kisses the knuckles. Bucky feels the touch of his lips like a brand. "From me, if you want to. From whoever else you need to."

"You don't care?" He feels dizzy from Steve's touch, and maybe from disbelief.

"I care that you get what you need," Steve says. "And I care that you come back to me. Anything else is just details."

"Do you mean that?" Bucky gasps, and it's like his insides are buzzing, and it is and it isn't the hunger, it's _Steve_ —Steve laying himself open for anything Bucky might do to him. "You can't say that, Steve, I'm a vampire, I could kill you."

Steve snorts a laugh and yanks Bucky closer, letting him feel the banked strength in his arms as he pulls Bucky up onto his chest and falls back against the couch so that Bucky is on top of him like the world's least effective blanket.

"Yeah, you probably could if you wanted to," Steve says, "but I don't think you want to. Do you?"

"No." Bucky curls his hands around Steve's biceps and pushes himself back a little, searching Steve's eyes, looking for doubt or uncertainty, or anything that might make him think that future Steve is going to regret anything that might happen next. He doesn't find it.

So Bucky gives into the impulse that he's wanted to give into longest, for most of his life in fact, and leans down to press a kiss to Steve's lips. He is hesitant, but Steve is not. Steve's hands are twisting in his hair, pulling him closer, pressing the length of his body against Bucky's. He's hot where Bucky is cold, and Bucky wants him the way he's never wanted anyone else, in ways that have nothing to do with vampires or dragons, but are just how he is with Steve.

Steve's mouth opens against his, and Bucky is possibly about to leave his body, but then Steve's tongue touches his and he is suddenly very much present and right there. Steve tastes like the tea he was drinking while he was waiting for Bucky to come home to him, and every inch of Bucky is wracked with affection and desperation all of a sudden.

He tugs at Steve's shirt and Steve lets him pull it off, and it's not that Bucky has never seen Steve shirtless, because of course he has, but this time, he can look, he's allowed to touch, and he doesn't have to pretend to be unaffected. Steve knows that he wants him. Steve wants him back. God, that's amazing.

Steve was a skinny kid, and Bucky doesn't know if it was just puberty that turned him into the muscular giant he's been since they were about twenty, or if it's some kind of dragon thing, but he is very big all over. His shoulders are broad, his abdomen thick with muscle. His biceps are huge. These are all objective facts that Bucky has observed time and time again, but not from the perspective of straddling Steve's bulk, not with Steve having said that he loved him, offering anything that he wants.

Bucky leans down so he can splay his fingers across Steve's chest. His skin is hot and soft beneath Bucky's fingers, and he gasps as Bucky moves his hands down his torso, arching up to meet his touch. His stomach muscles are defined, but he’s not ripped like a dedicated gym rat; his skin is smooth under Bucky's fingers, and he can't resist leaning down to kiss and lick the soft line of Steve's abdominal muscles, suck on the gentle swell of his belly above the waistband of his sweatpants. He flicks a glance up at Steve, who is watching him intently, and bites him, gently, right below his belly button. Steve groans and his hips rock forward, and Bucky buries his face against his stomach for a second, breathing in the smell of him, feeling the softness of his skin.

Something in Bucky is wanting and wanton all the time now, hungry to get more of his skin against Steve's, so he sits back and pulls his shirt off. He works out—well, he did—but he's not a prime slab of beef like Steve is. He's got some muscles, but he's more slender. But if he had a moment of self-doubt, it dissolves under the heat of Steve's stare as he takes him in. Steve's not subtle about it; he looks Bucky over, and he likes what he sees. His tongue darts out to trace his lips, and Bucky can't look away.

Steve sets his hands on Bucky's hips. He runs reverent hands up Bucky’s torso. His eyes go dark as he stares at Bucky’s chest; Bucky glances down and sees the remnant of a hickey next to his own nipple and feels suddenly terribly awkward and exposed, but Steve’s gaze is still hot on him, and Steve leans forward to press his own mouth over the mark, setting his teeth on it and sucking. Bucky moans, his fingers tightening helplessly on Steve’s shoulders When Steve pulls away, the mark is darker, and shaped like his mouth. Steve hums in satisfaction and tugs Bucky closer. Bucky can feel Steve's erection, hot and hard under his pants, and all he can think about is getting his mouth on Steve's dick.

"Steve," he says, voice breathy, "can I—"

"Anything," Steve says, and Bucky decides to take him at his word. He scoots down Steve's body, pulling his pants and underwear down as he goes, because he's impatient. Steve doesn't seem to mind, lifting his hips, moaning as his cock gets free.

Bucky takes a second to take it all in. Steve's hard, his dick flushed and wet already at the tip and Bucky never really thought he'd get to see him like this. He never thought that he could have what he wanted, never thought he could ask for it.

He runs his hands over the long muscles of Steve's thighs, feels him tense under the touch. He wraps his hand around the base of Steve's cock and licks his way up it, looking up the length of Steve's body. Steve is watching him avidly, hungrily, and it soothes something inside of him to know that he's not the only one wanting.

Bucky has sucked a lot of dick in his day—hell, he's sucked a lot of dick in the last week—but he's never wanted it to be good for the other guy as much as he wants it to be good for Steve now. He takes it slow, teasing him with the flat of his tongue, going a little deeper every time he bobs his head until he's got Steve's considerable length in his mouth, his throat relaxed enough to take him all the way. Steve moans and twists his fingers into Bucky's hair, and oh, that is doing things for Bucky.

He takes it slow as long as he can, but the temptation to make Steve come apart is too strong to resist for long, and he speeds up, taking him deep, and Steve is so responsive, arching up beneath him, it makes Bucky a little crazy. He sets a fast rhythm and Steve pulls at his hair a little bit as he comes in Bucky's mouth, and it's perfect, it's exactly what Bucky wanted.

He swallows and slides up Steve's body, licking his lips, and Steve wraps him in his massive arms, pulls him tight against his body. He's so warm, and it feels good, and Bucky just wants to settle in for a minute and ignore his aching dick. He's sure they'll get to it eventually.

"What do you want?" Steve whispers against his ear. Bucky turns his head to rub his cheek against Steve's chest, not certain how to answer. What he wants is everything, he's just not sure where he wants to start. Steve doesn't seem to need him to, though; he runs a hand down Bucky's side, slides it between the two of them,over his belly, fumbles open Bucky's fly in the close space between them. Bucky sucks in a breath, and Steve braces him with his other arm and turns them so they're face-to-face on the couch. Bucky is between Steve and the back of the couch and he feels protected and crowded and small with Steve's bulk between him and the rest of the world.

Steve pulls at Bucky's waistband, and Bucky wriggles his skinny jeans down his hips, slips them off. He's naked and maybe he should feel vulnerable, but the way Steve is watching him, he feels powerful, strong and good. Steve trails one big hand down his side, and it lights him up.

"Hngh," he says articulately, as Steve wraps his fingers around Bucky's dick. Steve moves his hand slowly and Bucky feels like he might possibly explode because nothing has ever felt quite like this: the friction of Steve's skin against his, the slide of his own precome, the steady pace that Steve sets. All of it is exquisite.

But then Steve murmurs, "Do you want to bite me?" and Bucky almost comes right there. He convulses a little and Steve slows his stroke, and Bucky has to bury his face in Steve's chest for a second while his fangs try to lengthen and he tries not to mindlessly rut against Steve's hip.

"Steve," he gasps after a moment, "you can't just say that."

"But I mean it." Steve threads his fingers through Bucky's hair, cradles the base of his skull, and pulls his mouth to Steve's throat. Bucky can smell him, the rich iron scent of him, stronger and _different_ from everyone else. He always has been, only Bucky didn’t know it because it was always just the smell of Steve, but there’s hint of smoke to him, like he’s been around a campfire. He tilts his head back, breathing through his mouth, trying not to let his fangs grow. Steve has other ideas, though, and pulls his head right back. "C'mon, Buck," he says. "I know you need it, and I want it."

Bucky gasps against his neck. "Are you sure?" he manages to say.

"I told you," Steve says, "anything. I mean it. You need this, and I want to give it to you."

And that's all Bucky hears before he's licking Steve's neck, smelling more than tasting the blood beneath his skin, sucking kisses into the notch of his collarbones, the line of his throat where his jugular vein crosses the muscles.

There's no stopping his fangs now, and when they extend it feels like taking off too-tight shoes. He moans and Steve echoes him, and Steve slowly jacks his cock; Bucky is overcome with sensation, and he bites down on Steve's vein. Steve's head falls back, and he makes a noise not dissimilar to the one he made when Bucky got his mouth on his dick.

Bucky's vampire creator didn't teach him much, but he did teach him about the effect that his bite has. It feels good to the victim because, as Bucky has learned, he's not so much a predator as a parasite, trading a feeling of euphoria for the blood that he takes. He doesn't need enough to kill someone; he guesses he could if he wanted, but that's gross. New vampires are horny all the time because feeding and sex are linked and the signals are all mixed up in their brains.

But he's not confused about it feeling good for Steve; Steve's head falls back as Bucky's fangs penetrate his skin and taste of his blood floods Bucky's mouth. Fuck, it tastes good, better than anything he's ever tasted before. It's hotter than the human blood Bucky has tasted, and it settles warmth into his gut as he drinks. And he hasn't been sated since he turned, but he feels satisfied, he feels full; he feels good.

Bucky hums a moan against Steve's throat, and Steve strokes his dick faster, and oh, hey, Steve is getting hard again, neat, so Bucky leaves one hand cupping the corner of his jaw and reaches back between them to hold his dick as it fills.

Bucky keeps drinking, and Steve's blood is hot and good, and Steve's hand is fast and sure on his dick, and Bucky convulses as he comes. Steve pulls him close with strong arms, and Bucky jacks him maybe a little rough, and Steve makes a choked off noise and comes again.

Bucky licks the wound that he made at Steve's neck and it closes, the bleeding slowing, Bucky not letting a drop go to waste.

Bucky ends up pressing a kiss to the healed wound in Steve's neck, and they curl around each other, skin to skin, and here's the thing: Bucky is warm for the first time since he died, but he's starting to feel cold too, because he's just taken from Steve and what has Steve gotten in return?

"Steve," he says.

"Mmmm." Steve drops a kiss to his hair and wraps his arms tighter around him.

"Steve," he tries again. "Was that okay? Did you—I mean..."

Steve's fingers tightening on his sides are all the warning he gets and then Steve flips him over and he's pinned by a metric fuckton of muscle and Steve is nosing at his neck.

"Bucky," Steve says, "you know I think highly of you and respect your intellect."

"Uhhh," Bucky says, like an intellectual.

"So I'm trying to figure out why you think I didn't like that."

"You're just giving! I'm just taking!" Bucky says, and he knows he sounds overly dramatic but it's _true_ , so he buries his face in the wide expanse of Steve's shoulder.

"Oh no," Steve says. "Buck, you've got it all wrong," and Bucky's shoulders relax a little because Steve's large, hot hand is rubbing circles into his back, and it feels good even though he's warm again. "You're my treasure," Steve says, and Bucky can _feel_ him blush where their skin is touching, and god, he loves him. "I'm not supposed to feel this way about a person, but I've always felt this way about you. Since we were kids." Steve's arms tighten around him. "I'm getting everything from this. Everything."

Bucky's chest clenches, and he turns in Steve's grip to press more kisses to his lips because he was thinking of it wrong, like taking and giving, and he knows better, he does. He doesn't have to think of it like a vampire, like a dragon. All of that's there, but they'll figure it out. They have time.

He just has to think of it the most important way; like someone who's letting the most important person in his life know that he's important too.

"Steve," he says, "you're my treasure too. I love you."

Steve surges forward to kiss him again, and Bucky kisses him back, full of hope.

They'll figure it out. They have all the time in the world.

 


	2. Fangs for Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some bonus ficlets and the images from thatsmysecret that inspired them. <3

These have been the longest few days of Steve's life.

Bucky is having some kind of episode, and it's not like Steve is a prude, and it's not like he himself has never gotten drunk or picked someone up at a bar, but this seems...excessive. Bucky's been out every night, coming home barely before dawn reeking of booze and sex, missing work...avoiding Steve. None of that is like him. Steve could let all of it slide except that last item, but also, Bucky smells different.

Not entirely different, but enough for Steve's sensitive nose to pick up. He's cataloged every change in Bucky over the years, and he knows.

It's dark out, and it's not like Bucky's going to be home anytime soon. Steve picks up the phone and calls Wanda.

By the time he finishes explaining about the changes in Bucky, Wanda has said "mmhm" into the phone probably fifty times, but it's not Steve's fault that Bucky makes him want to be thorough. What if he left out a detail and that's what Wanda needed to know what's happened to him and how Steve can help him?

"Steve," she says finally, once he's wound to a close. "I can't know for sure unless I see him, but I'm ninety-six percent certain that your friend is a vampire. New vampires have a lot of sex, because that's how they get blood."

"They, what. They trade sex for blood?" Steve doesn't understand.

"No. It feels sexually euphoric for the person they're taking it from." Steve shifts a little in his seat, liking the sound of that perhaps a little too much. Wanda's voice softens. "How are you holding up? It can be difficult for the people around a just-turned vampire, too."

"I'm all right," Steve says. "Or I will be, once I talk to him about it."

"It might help to write out what you're feeling," Wanda says. "Some people find journaling really helpful in times like these."

Steve's a little skeptical, but after they hang up, he gives it a try. Wanda's right; it is helpful.  

 

 

 

🐉

 

 

Bucky doesn't want to give his number out to any of his hookups--god, no--but the first time someone realizes what he is, he thinks maybe it'd be good to have a way to get in touch after all.

"Oh god yes, bite me," she says while they're kissing, and he freezes.

"Um," he says.

"You're going to, right? Please?" She pulls back and looks at him with worried eyes. She tilts her neck, and he can see, very faintly, faded silvery scars, two points fang distance apart, layered over other, older scars. "I really want you to," she concludes as she sees his eyes widen in comprehension.

So he does, of course, since that was the plan anyway, and makes up a twitter handle to he can keep up with her and others like her.

 

 

 

 

🐉

 

When Bucky finally tells his best friend Natasha, what happened to him, she doesn't react how he expected. 

"That's it?" he says.

"I guess I should tell you I'm a firebird," she says.

He throws up his hands in exasperation. "Is anyone I know actually human?"

She shrugs, and he thinks that's the end of it, but the next day she gives him a t-shirt, and she makes him wear it when they go out.

That's okay. It looks great on him.

 

When Steve sees the shirt Natasha gave him, he about ruptures something laughing. Bucky wears it even more frequently after that because Steve laughing is something he'll always want more of.

A week later, Steve presents him with another shirt. Bucky takes one look before he bursts out laughing, and pulls whatever he's wearing off so he can put this shirt on.

"Steve, it's perfect," he says, smoothing the logo down over his chest. "How did you know?"

Steve pulls him close and kisses him, big, hot hands wrapping around his waist. "Like I haven't been following you on twitter since you started that account," he says fondly. 

🐉🐉🐉

**Author's Note:**

> This fic would not exist without [thatsmysecret's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatsmysecret) enthusiasm! Thank you for egging this on. <3 <3 <3 The fantastic images throughout are from her, and chapter 2 is all bonus content that is entirely her fault. 
> 
> This fic also would not exist without [this tweet](https://twitter.com/giselle_slash/status/1136287779158147072) from giselleslash!
> 
> And many thanks to [Em](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmanperfectsoldier) for the beta read and encouragement! <3
> 
> FURTHERMORE for a quick visual reference to these boys' respective beefitude in this fic, please consult [this.](https://twitter.com/deisderium/status/1142381148452134913) Thank you for reading!


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